Hour Glass

You're an hourglass. You're a wall clock laid on its side with its hands faced up. You're dry pale sand seeping through a minute crevice in a cavern of glass. You're the even spaces between the ticks and the tocks that make my nerves wrench. 

In this instance, I am a void of emotions, empty from sorrow and fear and hopefulness. Each step taken is devoid of caution, utterly careless and purposefully thoughtless, as though death would be a friendly guest to greet at my front door. The only thoughts accounted for are the seconds awaiting for the knock, one, two, three, four.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

I am a void of emotions in a bottle, and my glass walls are thick. It won't open nor will it shatter, it brags of bruised knuckles and sleepless nights, heavy eyes and leaden hearts. The walls are impenetrable. They cannot feel the words they hear, those words are powdered into crumbly sand and scattered in the bed on which it lies. 

What are we fighting for? I become a stranger by every turn of the hourglass.